


imagine me and you

by bayloriffic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, parent trap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayloriffic/pseuds/bayloriffic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they return from Neverland, Henry decides to set a parent trap for Emma and Regina. By the time Emma realizes what he’s up to, she’s already half in love with Regina and it’s pretty much too late to do anything about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The kid’s good, Emma will give him that.

Henry doesn’t tip his hand too early, taking his time so that by the time she finally realizes what he’s doing, it’s pretty much already too late.

It starts out subtle, little things that she barely even notices -- chance meetings with Regina in front of the diner, bumping into each other in the grocery store, just. Random, inconsequential stuff like that. Stuff no one would pay much attention to. 

By the time she realizes what Henry’s up to, she’s already half in love with Regina and it’s pretty much too late to do anything about it.

*

After Neverland, Emma and Regina reach a kind of truce. 

It’s not that they’re friends, exactly, but they’re not not-friends either, so. Emma figures that’s about as good as it’s going to get. 

They even manage to work out a joint custody arrangement, agreeing to an every-other-week thing with Henry.

Regina even helps Emma find an apartment, which Emma suspects is mostly just so that Regina knows Henry’s not living in, like, a crack den or something when he’s with Emma, but still. 

Between the two of them they manage to get Gold to make Emma a pretty good deal on a two-bedroom about halfway between the mayoral mansion and Mary Margaret’s loft. It’s not much, but it feels pretty permanent and, for the first time in a very long time, that doesn’t make her nervous.

*

It’s the Thursday morning of her first full week of Henry living with Emma when she first starts to suspect something’s up.

Henry’s sitting in the window seat of her new, Regina-approved apartment, dawdling as they get ready to go grab some breakfast at Granny’s before school starts, apparently more interested in what’s going on outside than he is finishing tying his shoelaces. Or, at least, that’s what it looks like until he’s suddenly sitting up a little straighter, jumping to his feet before he’s even finished tying his left shoe.

“We need to leave now,” he says to Emma, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and heading for the door.

“Huh?” Emma asks. She hasn’t even had her first cup of coffee and she’s feeling particularly out of it. Getting a kid up and dressed and ready for school all on her own has been...well. It’s a lot harder than it looked when Mary Margaret was getting up with them, cooking Henry breakfast and walking him to school.

“We need to go,” he says again, more insistently this time, grabbing Emma’s hand and pulling her towards the door. “Right now. Come on.”

“Why?” Emma asks suspiciously, tugging back on his hand so that he has to stop.

“I’m...” he trails off, glancing up at the ceiling like he’s trying to think of something. “I’m really, really hungry. And, um,” he glances towards the window and pulls on Emma’s hand again, hard enough to get her moving. “Granny’s sometimes runs out of pancakes if you get there too late, and I _really_ want pancakes for breakfast.” 

Emma’s so caught up in his babbling that she just grabs her jacket and lets him drag her down the stairs, the two of them almost running smack into Regina on the sidewalk in front of the building.

Annoyance flickers across her face before she realizes it’s them, but then when she sees Henry, her expression changes, breaking into that warm, unguarded look she only gets when she’s talking to him. 

“Henry,” she says with a smile. “What a lovely surprise.” 

“Hi, Mom!” Henry’s says, sounding breathless and happy. One of his shoes is still untied, his sneaker slipping off his heel as reaches up and gives Regina a quick hug.

She presses her cheek against the crown of his head, still smiling. When she glances back up at Emma, her face is carefully neutral. “Good morning, Miss Swan,” she says politely.

“Hey, Regina,” Emma says distractedly, patting her pockets to make sure she didn’t forget anything in her haste to follow Henry out the door. She’s got her wallet and her holster and her keys, so she’s probably good for the day.

“We’re going to Granny’s for breakfast,” Henry says.

“Oh,” Regina says, sounding surprised. “That’s just where I was headed.”

“Great! We can all go together!” And then he’s grabbing Regina’s hand in his and taking Emma’s hand in the other, pulling them both down the block towards the diner, grinning up at them both the entire time. 

They manage to snag the last open booth at the diner, and only a few people give them openly curious looks, so Emma takes that as a good sign. Ruby comes over and pours their coffee and takes their orders, and then Henry spots August and Marco across the room and runs over to talk to them, leaving Emma and Regina alone, just sitting there in awkward silence. 

To makes things worse, Henry keeps glancing over at them, smiling in this weirdly knowing way, and Emma gets the unshakeable feeling that he’s set this whole situation up for some strange Henry-reason that she'll probably never figure out. Man, Emma is going to kill that kid. 

Regina’s not saying anything, and she looks about as uncomfortable as Emma feels. Emma just tries to focus on her coffee, pouring creamer slowly into the cup and then collecting a couple of sugar packets, tapping them slowly on the table, really focusing on the whole process. Across the table, Regina is watching her with a hard-to-read expression.

“So, Miss Swan,” Regina finally says, taking a long sip of her coffee like she’s trying to think of something to say. “How are you liking your new apartment?”

Emma smiles a little, almost sighing in relief. Polite small talk is good; she can handle that. “It’s great,” she says sincerely. “I’m still in the decorating stage, so it’s a little bare, but I think it’s coming along nicely.”

“Good.” Regina takes another sip of coffee and then looks around the diner.

Emma clears her throat. “So, uh, how is...mayoring going?” Ugh, god, what is wrong with her? 

Regina’s lips twitch. “‘Mayoring’ is going quite well, Miss Swan.”

“Good,” Emma says. “That’s...good.”

“And everything’s going well with Henry?” Regina asks. Her voice is light, but she’s fidgeting a little with one of the remains of Emma’s sugar packets, ripping the paper up into tiny shreds. 

“Yeah,” Emma says. “Things are good. He’s getting his room all set up and he’s, well. We’re adjusting.”

“Adjusting?” Regina repeats, just the barest hint of worry in her voice. 

For a second, Emma thinks about not saying anything, but she actually does need some parenting advice. And who better to ask than Henry’s actual parent, right? The worst that can happen is that Regina mocks her for her maternal incompetence, which Emma’s pretty used to by now.

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” she says, leaning across the table to talk in a low voice. “I don’t know how to get Henry to clean his room.” Regina doesn’t say anything, but the corner of her mouth twitches in an almost-smile. And, okay, this is kind of embarrassing, but whatever. Emma will take whatever mocking Regina wants to dole out if she can help her to get the kid not to be such a slob. “I mean, it’s a complete _disaster._ When we lived with David and Mary Margaret, it wasn’t an issue, but now there’s just stuff everywhere, all the time. And getting him to pick after himself -- Christ, getting him to clean his room -- it’s just. it’s a nightmare, Regina.” 

When she finally finishes her rant, Regina blinks. “I see,” she says, but she’s looking kind of amused, not like she’s about to tell Emma how she’s the worst parent on the planet. 

Emma’s about to ask her if she has any advice about this whole situation, but then Ruby’s coming up to the table with an armful of food, sliding their plates easily in front of them. As soon as he sees the food arrive, Henry races back over and throws himself into the booth next to Regina. 

He’s smothering his pancakes with an obscene amount syrup when Regina clears her throat, folding her hands primly in front of her. “Henry?” 

“Yeah?” he says, cutting off a huge bite of pancake and stuffing it into his mouth. 

“You need to clean your room,” she tells him simply. 

Henry shrugs. “My room is always clean,” he says through a mouthful of pancakes, like this should be obvious. 

“I meant your room at Emma’s apartment.”

“Oh,” he says, stopping mid-chew, and putting his fork down on his plate. He swallows hard, gulping the pancakes down. “That.” 

“Yes,” Regina says seriously. “ _That._ You know the rules, Henry. Your room is to be cleaned every night.” 

“But those are your rules, not Emma’s,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Right, Emma?” He shoots Emma a hopeful glance, one that’s practically begging her to take his side. And Emma actually feels herself caving before Regina interrupts, saving her from a complete descent into full-on parental incompetence.

“No,” Regina says. “Those are _your_ rules. Rules you need to follow no matter which house you’re in. Isn’t that right, Miss Swan?” 

Emma blinks. “Yeah,” she says. “Right.” 

Henry sighs heavily. “Fine. I’ll start cleaning up my room,” he says in this voice like this is the most difficult thing anyone’s ever asked him to do. 

“Good,” Regina says. “Now eat your breakfast.” She waits until Henry picks up his fork before she looks over a Emma, giving her a quick, conspiratorial wink. 

The rest of breakfast goes surprisingly well, Henry filling any potentially awkward silences with easy chatter about school and August’s birthday party next month and his plans for his room at Emma’s place. To be honest, Emma’s only kind of half-paying attention, strangely grateful that Regina’s there to pick up the slack and keeping up with the non-stop talking. 

Henry’s in the process of telling them about some big history project on the Boston Tea Party he has due next week, when he reaches up to wipe syrup off his face with his sleeve.

“Napkin!” she and Regina say at exactly the same time, both of them reaching for the dispenser, their hands bumping up against each other as they grab a napkin. 

“Geez.” Henry rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little as he takes the napkins, wiping his mouth. 

“Okay, kid,” Emma says, dropping a twenty on the table to pay for the food. “Ready to go?”

“Yep,” he nods, grabbing his backpack and sliding out of the booth. “You wanna walk to school with us?” he asks Regina, a hopeful look on his face.

“Is that alright with you, Miss Swan?” she asks, looking up at Emma like she’s legitimately asking permission.

Emma blinks. “Yeah, of course.”

Henry grins, bouncing a little on his toes as Regina follows them out of the diner, the three of the walking together down Main Street, Henry looking happier than he has in months.

*

On Sunday evening, Emma drives Henry over to Regina’s place. He’s got his duffel bag in the back, all his clothes washed and folded, his school uniform ready to go the next day. This whole full-time single parent thing has been a little more stressful than Emma anticipated, and she hates to admit it, but she’s kind of relieved to have the week off.

When she pulls up to the mayor’s house, Henry looks over her at her expectantly. “Do you want to come in?” he asks, sounding incredibly hopeful.

“No thanks, kid.” She’s just really tired. and she’s got a bunch of stuff she wants to get done around the apartment before she heads back to work tomorrow. 

“Oh.” Henry’s face falls, and Emma feels a quick surge of guilt. 

“But, hey,” she says, handing him his duffel bag. “Why don’t you stop by the station after school tomorrow? We can hang out then for a few hours.”

Henry nods like he’s thinking it over. “Okay,” he agrees. 

Up at the house, Regina’s opened the door and she’s standing there in a sleek grey dress, waiting expectantly for Henry, and when he sees her, he smiles a little and reaches over to give Emma a quick hug. “Bye Mom,” he says, and Emma feels something in her chest get tight.

“Bye, kid,” she says, watching a little sadly as he runs up the walk to Regina’s house.

*

Without Henry there, Emma’s new apartment is strangely quiet and empty. After his talk with Regina at the diner, he started picking up after himself, which is great, but it also means that there’s not even a bunch of kid stuff strewn around to remind Emma that he’s living there half the time. 

Plus, her apartment is just generally still pretty empty, just a couch and a cheap plywood coffee table in the middle of the living rom. A couple of weeks ago, she bought a bunch of bookcases and stuff, but she's been so busy helping Henry get his room set up that she hasn’t had a chance to put them together yet. Well, she decides, no time like the present. 

Two hours later, Emma’s sitting in the middle of her living room floor, a glass of wine in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, a pile of still not-put-together pieces of a bookcase scattered around her.

She takes another long drink and then squints at the completely unhelpful instructions for what must be the thousandth time. She’s about to give up on the whole thing for good -- it’s not like she even has that many books, definitely not enough to need their own furniture -- when there’s a knock at her door. She tosses the screwdriver she’s using to not get a shelf to screw in straight and glances up at the clock with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. It’s almost ten on a Sunday night, so she can’t imagine anyone’s showing up with good news. When she opens the door, Regina and Henry are standing there.

“Hey,” Emma says, surprised. She crosses her arms over her chest, feeling a little self conscious in her tank top and pajama shorts. 

“Hi, Emma,” Henry says with that same grin he had the other morning, the one he had when they ran into Regina before their breakfast at Granny’s. He’s dressed for bed, plaid flannel pajama pants peeking out from beneath his coat.

“Hello, Miss Swan,” Regina says. And then to Henry: “Get your project and let’s go.”

“Project?” Emma repeats, confused.

“I forgot my diorama,” Henry tells her. “For history.”

Oh, right. That damn diorama. She can’t believe he forgot it after they spent the better part of the weekend working on it before they finally managed to throw together a more-or-less identifiable scene from the Boston Tea Party. “It’s in your room.”

“Awesome,” he says, ducking under Emma’s arm and dashing down the hallway to his room, hopping over the pile of tools and bookcase pieces as he goes.

Regina’s still standing out in the hall, looking bored. She looks different than she normally does and it takes Emma a second to realize it’s because she’s dressed for bed, too, her face scrubbed clean of make-up and her normal suit and heels replaced by silky black pajamas under her coat. 

“Come on in,” Emma says, stepping aside and holding the door open. Regina only hesitates for a second before she steps inside, looking around with undisguised curiosity, raising her eyebrows slightly at the disaster area that is currently Emma’s living room.

“Want some wine?” she asks, already going into the kitchen to grab an empty glass.

“We’re not staying,” Regina tells her. She’s standing just inside the door, still wearing her coat, her arms crossed over her chest. 

“Suit yourself.” Emma sets the empty glass next to the bottle of Chardonnay on the coffee table and picks up her own glass, taking a long swallow before settling back on the floor with the bookcase from hell.

“Henry!” Regina calls. 

He pokes his head out of the room. “Some of the protesters fell over,” he tells her seriously. “I’ve gotta fix it.”

“Can’t you do that at home?”

“It’s really delicate,” he says. “If I move it, it’ll probably break even more. Just a couple of more minutes, okay?”

“Fine,” Regina sighs, looking at her watch as Henry disappears again. 

“Come on, your majesty,” Emma says, refilling her glass and pouring some wine into the other glass. “Have a seat.”

Regina glances down the hallway towards Henry’s room and shakes her head, looking annoyed. But after just a second, she shrugs off her coat and sits on the couch, snagging the wine off the coffee table and taking a tentative sip. Emma rolls her eyes. 

Regina sits on the edge of the couch, like she’s ready to spring up at any moment, sipping her wine and watching as Emma struggles trying to align one of the shelves. She finally gets it right, but when she takes one of hands off the shelf to find the screw, the whole thing tilts and falls apart. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Emma mutters and runs a hand through her hair in frustration.

“You’re doing that wrong,” Regina says, and Emma turns around to scowl at her. She’s sitting back on the couch, the wine glass in her hand a superior look on her face. “You should put the screw in before you try to line up the shelves.”

“Gee, thanks,” Emma mutters, ignoring the advice and picking the shelf up again. This time she manages to actually start putting the screw in before the whole thing falls apart. “Aughhhh.”

Behind her, Regina sighs heavily, but before Emma can say something to her, she’s coming to sit on the floor next to her, sitting cross-legged as she reaches for the shelf Emma keeps dropping. Regina’s pajama-clad knee bumps up against Emma’s, the silk smooth and cool as it brushes against Emma’s bare skin.

“What the hell are you doing?” Emma asks, resisting the urge to snatch the piece of wood out of her hand. 

“I’m helping you, Miss Swan,” Regina says slowly, in this tone that implies Emma’s a complete idiot. “Now hand me that screwdriver.”

With Regina’s help, she actually manages to get one of the shelves attached, Regina holding the shelf while Emma screws it carefully in place. The amount of joy she feels just seeing that one shelf in place is probably completely absurd, but she was honestly starting to think she’d never get this damn thing put together. 

The next shelf goes in a little easier, and in practically no time the thing starts to look more like a bookcase and less like a pile of wood. She and Regina don’t really say much as they work, but it’s fine, not awkward or tense or anything. Regina keeps kind of ordering her around, but Emma’s had enough wine that it hardly even bothers her. It's actually kind of nice, the two of them working together. Regina's surprisingly handy, her long, thin fingers threading the screws and positioning shelves, and Emma's almost absurdly grateful that Henry forgot his history project tonight.

Before too long, they’re putting the last shelf in, trying to slide it in carefully so that it’s straight. It’s looking good, but the Regina lets go of her side a second before Emma lets go of hers, and it lands right on Emma’s palm, pinching a huge chunk of flesh between the shelf and the peg it rests on.

“Ow!” She pulls her hand away instinctively, but that’s apparently a bad idea, because that just means the pinch turns into a gash and, shit. That _really_ hurts. She looks down at it and winces, the blood already starting to well up. Ugh. This night sucks.

Beside her, Regina’s watching her with a slightly horrified look. “Are you okay, Miss Swan?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, holding her hand up slightly to stop it from bleeding so much. “I’m great.”

Regina sighs, sounding put-upon. “Where do you keep your band-aids?”

“Um,” Emma says. “At the store?”

“Excuse me?” Regina's staring at her like this is the most insane thing Emma could have said, like not having band-aids on hand is some kind of horrible mom-crime.

“I don’t have band-aids, Regina,” Emma says, ignoring the look Regina’s giving her. They can argue about her lack of maternal abilities after she's stopped dripping blood all over the floor. “Just...can you grab me a paper towel or something?” Man, her hand is really bleeding, the blood starting to run down her wrist. 

Regina rolls her eyes and grabs her purse off the coffee table. “Come with me, Miss Swan,” she says, as she marches into the kitchen and over to the sink.

Emma follows her, trying to keep herself from bleeding all over her clean wood floors. Regina’s standing by the sink, rummaging around in her purse. After just a couple of seconds, she pulls out a couple of band-aids, and then reaches over and turns on the tap. 

“Regina -- ” Emma starts, but then Regina’s grabbing her injured hand none too gently and holding it under the water.

The water’s warm, and it stings when it hits the cut, but Emma keeps her face neutral, biting hard on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from flinching. Regina’s still holding her hand under the water, and she’s actually being gentle as she cleans up the blood. Her hand is strangely cool -- almost soothing against Emma’s skin -- as she pulls her hand away from the water and starts pressing a paper towel against the wound.

“Hold this here,” she orders, and Emma presses her hand over the paper towel. When she does, her fingers brush up against Regina’s, and her stomach flips strangely. She’s definitely had too much wine.

She’s suddenly very aware of how close they’re standing, how she’s just wearing a tank top and skimpy shorts, how the collar of Regina’s pajama top is sliding off her shoulder, exposing a smooth expanse of skin, the straight line of her collarbone sharp and delicate. 

For her part, Regina’s busy unwrapping the band-aids, lining two of them up on the counter before taking Emma’s hand again. The cut already looks a lot better, not nearly as bad as it seemed when it was all bloody, but Regina leans over to study it closely, her breath cool against Emma’s palm. 

“How does it look?” Emma asks, just to say something.

Regina glances up at her, one corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. “I think you’ll live, Miss Swan,” she says, and then she puts on the bandages, pressing them against the cut, smoothing the ends down so they stick to Emma’s palm. 

Emma’s stomach is still doing that weird flipping thing, and it’s very quiet in the kitchen, just the muffled sound of Henry moving around in his room down the hall.

“Thank you,” Emma says, but her voice comes out strange, low and sort of breathy, and Regina glances up at her again. Her eyelashes are very dark against her cheeks and her face looks a little flush.

They just stand there for a few seconds, Regina brushing her thumb absently over the heel of Emma’s palm, her fingers cool and soft against Emma’s skin. Regina’s eyes are dark, and Emma takes a small step closer to her, not really sure what she’s doing, her breathing sounding strangely harsh in the silence.

They’re still standing like that a moment later when Henry appears in the doorway, a cardboard box held carefully in one hand. “I’m ready to --” he starts, then stops when he sees the blood and the band-aids, his eyes going wide. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Emma tells him. She’s suddenly very conscious of the fact that she and Regina are still kind of holding hands, and she pulls her hand away gently.

Regina doesn’t even look at her when she does, just blinks and clears her throat. “Did you finish your project?” she asks Henry.

Henry nods. “Yep,” he says, and then holds up the diorama for them to see, all the protesters fixed and upright. “All done.”

“Good,” Regina says brusquely. She grabs her purse and walks over to Henry, taking his hand in hers. “Well. Say goodnight to Emma.”

“Goodnight, Emma,” Henry says dutifully, giving her a sideways smile. 

“Goodnight, Henry,” Emma says. 

*

After they leave, she heads back into the living room, starting to stack the books on her new shelves. The apartment feels weirdly quiet now, and it takes her a couple of seconds to realize she kind of liked having Regina there. It’s a strange, unsettling thought, but, well. There it is. 

Her hand is still throbbing, and she takes another long drink of wine, trying not to think about the way Regina’s skin felt against hers or the way her stomach is still kind of flipping. 

It’s just...it’s been a really strange night.


	2. Chapter 2

For the most part, Emma thinks she’s doing okay with the whole single mom thing. Henry seems pretty happy at least, and they’ve managed to get through almost two full weeks together without him running away or losing a limb or getting abducted by a roving band of anti-magic zealots. So, all in all, not too bad. 

They get into a routine pretty quickly, eating at breakfast at Granny's every morning before Emma walks Henry to school, and then walking home together from the station every night. Even the weekly hand-offs with Regina are going well, something that's probably helped by the fact that they see her pretty much everyday, running into her at the diner and the post office and the dry cleaner. It's a little strange, actually, and if not for the fact that Regina always seems legitimately surprised to see her, she'd almost expect Regina were orchestrating these little meetings herself.

Really, Emma thinks that things are going pretty well. At least, they are until Henry decides he’s sick of eating at Granny’s for every meal, and Emma's stuck having to figure out how to do the home-cooked meal thing. 

Her first foray into home cooking -- a couple of slices of toast to go with Henry’s cereal -- is an unmitigated disaster, the second-hand toaster Gold sold her going down in a blaze of sparks and black smoke.

And she assumes that’s that -- Emma Swan does not, _cannot,_ cook -- but that night, when she asks Henry if he’d rather have pizza or Chinese food for dinner, he sighs.

“Why can’t we just cook something here?” he asks, plopping gracelessly down on the couch and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. 

“Were you not here this morning?” Emma asks. “I set the kitchen on fire making toast.”

“So?” Henry shrugs. “We won’t make toast.”

Emma sighs. “Yeah, see, here’s the thing, kid. I don’t cook. I’m a horrible cook. The toast should have clued you in on that.”

He just stares at her, a stubborn look on his face that she knows means he’s not going to let this go. Ugh, fine. “What do you want me to make?”

He grins, victorious. “Anything.”

Anything. Excellent. Really helpful. Emma sighs and starts rifling through her cabinets, which are embarrassingly empty. She’s got coffee and popcorn and two half-full bottles of wine. “You sure you don’t want to grab a burger at Granny’s?” she asks hopefully, peering around the cabinet door to where he’s still sitting on the couch.

He shakes his head. "Nope." 

“Fine,” she sighs. “Grab your jacket. We need to make a grocery run.”

*

On the drive to the grocery store, she and Henry settle on spaghetti for dinner, a meal that Emma’s pretty sure she can make without setting her apartment on fire. It's a jar of sauce, a pot of boiling water, Emma figures. How hard can it be? 

When they get there, the store’s pretty empty, most of the people in Storybrooke apparently spending their Friday night doing something a little more exciting than grocery shopping. Plus, as soon as they get in the store, Henry starts acting kind of weird, peering down the aisles expectantly like he’s looking for someone.

“What are you looking for?” Emma finally asks. 

“Nothing,” he says with a shrug, but then he peers down the next aisle, craning his neck like he’s trying to see out the front windows. 

“Yeah, well, stop it.” She tosses a prepackaged salad into the basket and heads for the pasta aisle. “It’s making me nervous.” 

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, but doesn’t actually stop looking, just starts being a little more subtle about it. Finally, she’s had about as much as she can take, Henry still acting like he’s waiting for something -- or someone -- to appear. 

“Hey,” she says, and he chances a quick glance back at her before returning his attention to scanning the front of the store. “Want to run over to the bakery and grab some bread to go with dinner?”

“Okay!” he chirps, and then he’s gone, skipping off towards the other side of the store. 

Once he's gone, Emma moves more quickly up and down the aisles, throwing stuff in the cart that she figures they can eat at home without her actually having to cook anything. When she finally makes her way over to the bakery aisle, Henry's still there...and he's talking to Regina. Ugh, seriously? They _really_ need to move to a bigger town. 

“Hey,” Emma says, walking up to them cautiously, trying not to look anywhere as annoyed as she feels.

“Emma! My mom’s here!” Henry’s practically bouncing, beaming up at them both.

“I see that,” she says through the politest smile she can manage.

“Hello, Miss Swan," Regina says, her voice carefully neutral.

“Hey, Regina,” Emma says. “What’s up?”

“I was just doing some shopping, when I ran into Henry,” Regina says, nodding at her cart. It’s full of fruits and vegetables and all kinds of healthy things, no prepackaged junk food in sight. Emma’s tries to tuck her basket behind her back, hiding the twinkies and the cheetos and the jar of pre-made pasta sauce from view.

“We’re buying stuff for dinner,” Henry tells her. 

“Oh?” 

Henry nods. “Yeah, we think we’re going to make spaghetti, but Emma can’t really cook, so.” 

Regina smirks, and Emma rolls her eyes. Geez, kid, thanks for the loyalty. “It’s spaghetti, Henry. I think I can figure it out.” 

He just raises his eyebrows, looking doubtful. “You started a fire making _toast._ ”

Beside them, Regina narrows her eyes. “You started a fire with my son in the house?” she demands, like random household mishaps are proof of Emma’s complete maternal incompetence.

“It wasn’t a fire,” Emma tells her, stepping out of the way as Archie walks past, looking at the three of them curiously. “It was just...it was an old toaster, and...” She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “It wasn’t a fire.” 

“I should hope not,” Regina says disapprovingly, but she looks a little like she’s trying not to smile. 

“Hey!” Henry says, his face lighting up like he’s suddenly just realized something. “Why don’t you come over? You can teach Emma how to make lasagna.” He turns to Emma and says seriously, “My mom makes really good lasagna.” 

“Oh, Henry, I don’t know,” Emma says. And, man, what is it with this kid lately? It’s like he’s forgotten that Regina basically hates everything about Emma and what she stands for. “I’m sure she’s got better things to do tonight.”

“Oh,” Henry says, his face falling. Then, turning back to Regina: “ _Do_ you have better things to do?”

“Uh,” Regina says, looking taken aback. “Well, not really, I guess...”

“Great! Then you can come over!” 

She looks up at Emma, questioning. Emma sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she says. Over by the cash registers, Archie’s giving them an approving look, smiling a little at the way Henry’s bouncing happily between them. “Let’s go.”

*

When they get up to her place, the plan for Regina to teach Emma how to be a master lasagna chef hits a couple of snags.

The first problem arises when they discover Emma doesn’t have a lasagna pan, a fact that, judging by the way Regina sighs and rolls her eyes, is an almost-insurmountable issue. Luckily, after just a few minutes of searching, Emma finds an old baking dish in the drawer under the stove, left behind by whoever the hell Gold rented this apartment to before her. It's a little crusty and gross, but after a thorough wash, they're good to go. Or, they would be if more than one of the burners on Emma stove actually worked. 

“What a surprise,” Regina mutters, but she sounds less annoyed than smug, and, god, why did Emma ever agree to this?

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Emma demands. Henry's watching them from the other side of the kitchen, looking nervously between them.

“It means, Miss Swan, that you don’t have the best track record when it comes to mastering basic life skills. I’m not surprised you’ve chosen to live in an apartment where you’re unable to cook dinner for my son.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “If you recall, _your majesty_ , you helped me find this place.”

Regina ignores her. “I’ll call Gold first thing tomorrow morning and have him repair this.” 

“I can call him, Regina,” Emma sighs. Because, yeah, she can’t make toast and she doesn’t have a lasagna pan, but she can handle a crappy landlord all on her own, thank you very much. She’s not completely without life skills.

Regina gives her a saccharine smile. “Why don’t you just let me do it, dear?” she says, all mock-sweetness. “You seem as though you’ve gotten a bit over your head.”

Emma crosses her arms over her chest. “You know what Regina --” she starts.

“Hey,” Henry interrupts loudly. “Can I chop the tomatoes?” 

“Sure,” Emma says, just as Regina says, “Absolutely not.”

She glares at Emma, her arms crossed over her chest. “Knives are sharp, Miss Swan,” she informs her, as though Emma thought Henry would be slicing tomatoes with a spoon. Then to Henry: “You can grate the cheese.” 

“I can take of my own kid,” Emma tells her. She takes the tomatoes out of the bag, holding them tight enough she can feel them starting to bruise, and she knows how ridiculous this is, fighting over _tomatoes_ , but still. It's the principle of the thing.

“He’s _my_ kid,” Regina retorts, taking a step toward Emma, her hands on her hips.

And Emma can feel her shoulders tensing, readying for a fight, but then suddenly Henry’s there, standing between them, looking anxious.

“Stop fighting,” he says desperately. “Please. I don’t need to cut the tomatoes. I don’t need to do anything. I just...I want you guys to be friends again.”

“Henry,” Emma sighs.

“We were never friends,” Regina sneers.

“Yes, you were.” Henry turns on her. “You were friends when you came to rescue me in Neverland. I know you were. You told me, remember?”

Emma glances sharply at Regina, but she doesn’t look at her, just keeps her eyes trained on Henry. It’s just...Regina said they were friends? That can’t be right, can it? 

“Please,” Henry begs. “Just...be nice to each other, okay?”

Regina crosses her arms over her chest. Emma sees a muscle in her jaw twitch. “Fine.”

Henry turns to her expectantly and Emma rolls her eyes. “Fine by me,” she agrees. “We’ll be nice. Right, Madam Mayor?”

Regina looks right at her, her dark eyes bright, and Emma’s heart does something strange in her chest. “Of course, Miss Swan.”

They end up letting Henry grate the cheese while Regina and Emma chop vegetables. Regina slices up all the herbs and and the garlic, while Emma tackles the tomatoes and onions, moving slowly but without any lost fingers or major blood loss. It's the little victories that count.

Once Henry’s done grating the cheese, he’s apparently bored with this whole cooking thing, so he dashes off to the living room to play some video game he’s been obsessed recently. And even though Emma would actually rather go with him than stay trapped in the kitchen with Regina, she’s determined to be the kind of mom who cooks dinner instead of playing video games. At least while Regina’s around.

So instead, she grabs a couple of wine glasses and a bottle of Merlot from the cabinet. Over near the stove, Regina’s taken off her suit jacket and she’s rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, the smooth skin on her arms dark against the white silk of her shirt. Emma watches her as she pours the wine, strangely fixated by how easy Regina seems in the kitchen, how she seems more normal than Emma's ever seen her, hardly a trace of the Evil Queen in sight. 

When Emma hands her a glass, their fingers brush, and her stomach flips strangely. Regina hesitates for a second, her skin warm against Emma's and her eyes dark. It's very warm in the kitchen and they're standing incredibly close to each other, and Emma's got no idea what's gotten into her recently, the way her whole body seems to feel kind of buzzing and alive when she's with Regina. Whatever it is, it's dangerous, she knows that, so she lets go of the glass, looking away as she takes a step back.

“So,” Emma says, clearing her throat and taking a long, nervous sip of wine. “Did you really tell Henry we were friends?”

“No,” Regina scoffs. She’s leaning down over the counter, gathering the tomatoes into a saucepan, her face hidden behind her hair. “Of course not.”

Emma peers at Regina’s face, but she can’t make out her expression through the dark curtain of her hair. Because, the thing is, they were actually sort of friends back in Neverland, the two of the working together to find Henry, all of the horrible stuff between them more or less forgotten in their search to get their kid back. “Then why did he say you did?” She leans her hip against the counter and takes a sip of wine.

Regina doesn’t answer, just picks up her own glass and takes a long drink. Finally, she stands up straight and sighs, tossing her hair out of her eyes. “Do you want to learn how to cook or do you want to chit-chat about the conversational habits of a twelve-year-old?” she demands.

Emma holds her hands up in surrender and turns around to peer into the pan of chopped vegetables. “Fine. Teach me how to cook, your majesty.”

Turns out, there’s not much to the whole cooking thing. Regina just throws all the vegetables in the pan with some cans of tomato and some spices and stirs it a little...that seems to be it. It’s kind of anticlimactic, to tell you the truth. Emma’s pretty sure she could do this on her own.

“So,” she says once Regina’s apparently finished with the sauce and has started the water for the pasta. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

Regina gives her a sharp look. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you were the Evil Queen back in your land, right?" Emma says. "So you must have had servants and cooks and stuff. So...where’d you learn how to cook?”

Regina blinks. “I re-lived the same day, every day, for twenty-eight years, Miss Swan. I had to occupy my time somehow.” 

“And, what? Terrorizing Snow White wasn’t entertaining enough?” Emma asks, keeping her voice light.

The corner of Regina’s mouth twitches. “It was pretty fun at first,” she admits. “But then it lost a lot of its appeal once I figured out she wasn’t going to fight back.”

“Good thing I showed up, then, huh?” Emma says, nudging Regina lightly with her shoulder. The water is finally boiling, the steam from the stove making the kitchen hot and humid. “Made your life interesting again.”

“Yeah,” Regina says wryly. “Good thing.”

Emma can't stop herself from smiling a little, and Regina even smiles back, and, yeah, maybe they are kind of friends.

“What about you, Miss Swan?” Regina asks, tossing the pasta into the pan and turning back to Emma with a curious glint in her eye.

Emma quirks an eyebrow in question.

“You’ve been on your own, what? Fifteen, sixteen years?” Regina says. “Why can’t you cook?”

Emma smirks. “Well, as you love to point out, your majesty, I moved around a lot. Not exactly the homebody type.”

“Didn’t they have a life skills class in prison?” she asks, all wide-eyed mock innocence. 

Emma snorts. “I skipped it.”

“Of course you did,” Regina says, but Emma can tell that she’s trying not to smile.

Once the pasta finishes, Regina gets back down to business, ordering Emma around the kitchen until they have everything ready to put the lasagna together, all the bowls of cheese and sauce and noodles lined up neatly next to the stove. The whole assembly process is actually kind of fun. Or, well, it _could_ be if you didn’t have the Evil Queen criticizing your saucing technique and bitching about your cheese distribution skills. But they manage to get it together and into the oven and Emma only thinks about killing Regina once. Maybe twice.

After that, they’ve got a while before dinner’s actually ready, and the kitchen’s a complete disaster, so they start to clean up, Emma washing the pots and pans while Regina dries.

They’re already on their second bottle of wine, and everything feels kind of pleasantly soft around the edges, and Emma’s standing close enough to Regina that she can feel the heat of her body. In the living room, Henry’s moved on from the video game and is watching some sitcom, canned laughter filtering softly into the kitchen, and it’s strange, how comfortable this feels, cooking dinner with Regina while their kid watches TV in the other room. 

“So,” Emma says. “It’s pretty lucky that we happened to run into each other tonight.”

“Not really,” Regina shrugs. She reaches over and takes the saucepan from Emma, their fingers brushing up against each other for just a beat longer than necessary.

“What do you mean?” Emma grabs the cutting board, concentrating on getting it clean, not paying any attention at all to the way Regina’s shoulder keeps brushing against her own.

“I mean that I go to the market every Friday after the town council meeting,” Regina tells her. “So it wasn’t luck that we ran into each other tonight. Just routine.”

The TV is still on in the living room, but the volume is turned down really low, and Emma gets the strange sense that none of these chance meetings have been coincidences at all. “Does Henry know that?” she asks. “About you going to the store on Fridays?”

“Of course,” Regina says with a shrug. “He’s my son.”

“Right,” Emma says, distracted. Henry’s up to something, that much is obvious, but it’s like her brain can’t quite wrap itself around what he’s trying to do. She grabs the last of the pans, idly scrubbing it while she thinks about it, how strange Henry’s been acting recently, all the chance meetings with Regina. When Regina reaches over to grab the pan from her hand, Emma’s only half-paying attention, and it slips, dropping into the soapy water with an impressive splash. 

Beside her, Regina gasps and Emma looks over to see that she’s soaked, her shirt sticking to her skin. 

“Oh man,” Emma says horrified. “I am so, so sorry.”

Regina’s just standing there, her hands held up and her mouth open, like she can’t actually believe Emma just did what she did. Neither can Emma actually, and she just looks at Regina for a beat, feeling frozen. 

“Um,” she finally manages, reaching over to grab a clean dishtowel from the drawer by the sink. Regina still hasn’t said anything, but her eyes have gone hard, narrow and dark, and Emma’s never been afraid of Regina, but a strange spike of adrenaline hits her.

“Here,” Emma says, and she presses the dishtowel against Regina’s shirt, right below her collarbone, trying to fix some of the damage. 

Regina’s skin is warm beneath her fingers and when Emma presses more firmly against her, Regina sucks in a sharp breath, and Emma finally realizes what she’s doing, that she’s got her hands on Regina’s chest. 

She can feel Regina’s heart beat, fast and erratic. The silk of her shirt is completely sheer, and Emma can make out the line of her bra, lacy and delicate and very, very white next to the darkness of her skin.

Emma kisses her before she even realizes what she’s doing, her heart stuttering wildly in her chest. For one horrible, heart-stopping moment, Regina doesn’t respond, but then she’s kissing Emma back, opening her mouth under hers and running her tongue along Emma’s lower lip.

Regina she smells like dish soap and tomato sauce, and her heart is racing under Emma’s hand, her skin burning-hot beneath the thin, wet fabric of her shirt. She tastes like wine, rich and dark and a little bitter, and Emma feels like she can’t quite catch her breath. But she can’t stop kissing Regina, can’t stop touching her, and it’s like nothing else matters. She strokes her thumb along the curve of Regina’s breast, and Regina makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, one that makes Emma’s heart flip and her breath hitch in her throat. 

Emma's got one hand snaking its way up Regina's shirt, her fingers tracing the ridges of her ribcage when: "Hey mom?" Henry suddenly calls from the living room. 

They spring apart, putting some distance between them, their breathing loud and ragged in the tiny kitchen.

“Yes?” they say at the same time, both of them sounding breathless, and, oh god, oh god, what the hell are they doing?

Emma shoots a panicked glance toward the living room, but Henry’s just now getting up from the couch, and there’s no way he saw them, right? He looks normal, not like he just walked in on his two moms making out, so. They’re probably safe. Still, Emma’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire, and she smoothes her hair behind her ears, trying to look normal and not at all like she was just making out with the Evil Queen.

“Um,” he says, standing in the doorway, looking unsure as he glances between the two of them. “Are you guys okay?” 

“Of course,” they say in unison, and Emma winces. Geez, that doesn’t seem suspicious at all. 

“Were you guys fighting again?” he demands, and Emma has to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek to stop the hysterical laughter she feels bubbling up in her chest. 

“No, honey,” Regina says. She still sounds breathless and Emma forces herself not to look at her. “We were...we weren’t fighting.”

Henry tilts his head and looks at them for a few beats like he’s trying to figure something out. Emma resists the urge to fidget. He opens his mouth like he’s going to ask something else, but then the oven timer goes off before he gets a chance.

“Dinner’s ready!” Regina says with false brightness, and Emma practically sags in relief.

*

Dinner goes pretty well, all things considered.

The lasagna’s actually really good, and even though Regina did most of the cooking, Emma feels strangely proud of herself, like she’s accomplished some big task, making dinner for her kid.

Neither she nor Regina say much of anything, but Henry keeps up a steady stream of chatter, telling them how he did on his history project and about how there’s some big play or something coming up at the end of the school year. 

And even though Emma tries as hard as she can to focus on him, she’s only kind of paying half-attention to what he’s saying.

Regina's shirt has pretty much dried, but there's a spot just below her shoulder that's still a little wet, the silk clinging to her skin, and Emma has to concentrate pretty hard at not staring at her.

A couple of times, she thinks she feels Regina's eyes on her, but every time she glances in her direction, Regina’s looking somewhere else. For his part, Henry seems suspiciously happy, watching Emma and Regina not watch each other, a small, secret smile on his face.

The whole thing is more than a little unsettling, and by the time they're finished and Regina leaves, Emma's pretty much decided she and Henry need to have a talk.

*

“I know what you’re doing,” she tells Henry once Regina leaves. They managed to get through dinner and the post-meal clean up without anyone accidentally kissing anyone else, so Emma's counting it as a success.

“What?” he asks, all wide-eyed and innocent in a way that totally confirms her suspicions.

“You’re trying to parent trap us,” she says, and she can’t believe that she’s actually saying this, that her kid is trying to set her up with the freaking Evil Queen. “Me and Regina.”

“N-no, I’m not,” he stutters, shaking his head adamantly. “I’m not! I swear!”

“Henry,” she says, a warning, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him her best stern look.

“You have to be twins to do a parent trap,” he says, as though this should be obvious. “I’m not a twin.”

“You know what I mean,” she says, not about to the let a twelve year-old out best her in an argument about something so absurd. “You’re trying to trick us into...Jesus, I don’t even know what you’re trying to trick us into. Falling in love?”

“Yeah, so?” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s working, right?”

“No,” Emma scoffs. It’s definitely not working. Just because she and Regina are getting along and maybe kind of kissed doesn’t mean it’s working. It just means...well, she doesn’t know what it means exactly, but still. It’s not working.

“Yes it is,” he groans, like this whole conversation is just completely exhausting. “You just have to stop fighting it!”

“Kid,” she sighs, trying to let him down easy. It can’t be hard having to split his time between the two of them, living in two different places, constantly getting traded between them every couple of days. “It’s not like that with me and Regina.”

“But it can be,” he says. He sounds legitimately frustrated. “You guys like each other, I _know_ you do.”

Emma sighs and scrubs a hand across her face. “Here’s the thing, kid. You can’t just force two people to fall in love. That’s not how it works.”

“I’m not forcing you guys to do anything,” he says. “If you’re falling in love, it’s because you guys love each other.”

“Henry,” Emma says seriously. Just, she can’t have Henry thinking she and Regina have fallen in love. That’s just. That’s not fair to him. “Regina and I are _not_ falling in love. We’re just...” she trails off, not able to explain what they’re doing since she actually has no idea. “You just have to stop doing this, okay? Please.”

“Fine,” Henry says, kicking the toe of his sneakers against the floor. He’s not looking at her, though, and he’s got a stubborn look on his face.

“Promise,” she tells him.

He sighs and scuffs his toe at the floor a couple more times before looking back up at her. “I promise.”

“Good,” Emma says, and it is good, because things will hopefully go back to normal now. Henry's going to stop trying to orchestrate all these little chance meetings, and she and Regina can go back to seeing each other once a week when they do their weekly Henry-hand-off.

And the thing is, she knows she should feel relieved, but mostly she just feels kind of unsettled. Because the truth is, no matter what she just told Henry, she thinks she may be, just a little bit, against all odds, falling in love with the Evil Queen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long to get this final chapter posted! A huge thank you to everyone who encouraged me to finish, expressed interest in reading the last part, and/or is still reading -- I hope you enjoy this :)

After the conversation with Henry, Emma makes a concentrated effort to avoid ending up in any kind of situation with Regina that could possibly be construed as date-like. Which means she and Henry cut out their breakfasts at Granny’s, and Emma only goes grocery shopping on Monday afternoons when she knows Regina's at work, and she doesn’t ever invite Regina inside for a glass of wine when she stops by on Sundays to pick up Henry. 

It actually works out pretty well. Her pop-tart toasting skills are reaching new heights and the market’s pretty empty on Mondays and she needs to cut down on her wine-consumption anyway, so. Everything’s fine.

Or, at least, everything’s fine until Thanksgiving rolls around and Mary Margaret, in the spirit of goodwill or eternal optimism or whatever ridiculous good-natured fairy tale urge is driving her, invites Regina to Thanksgiving dinner.

“You did _what_?” Emma demands when Mary Margaret tells her the news. They’re standing in Emma’s kitchen -- not too far from where Regina and Emma kissed, actually -- and, seriously, is everyone in this town conspiring to get Regina and Emma together?

“I invited Regina,” Mary Margaret says carefully. She’s turned to look at Emma, a hand on her hip and her head cocked to the side. “That’s okay, isn’t? I mean...you two are getting along, aren’t you?”

Emma swallows hard, nodding as she looks away. “Yeah, we’re…” She clears her throat and nods again. “We are. We’re getting along fine.”

“Good.” But Mary Margaret’s still looking at her strangely, maternal concern with a dangerous edge of curiosity. “I think this will be good for us, you know? Especially for Henry.”

"Of course." Emma tries to smile. She maybe doesn’t quite pull it off if the look on Mary Margaret’s face in any indication, but it’s the best she can do.

“This is a good thing,” her mother says. “Isn’t it?”

Emma takes a breath, forcing herself to get it together because, seriously, Mary Margaret of all people is not trying to set her up with Regina. “Yes,” she says. Because, yes, this is a good thing, her parents trying to get along with Regina, and Regina apparently trying right back. And Emma’s certainly not going to let some ridiculous plot by a twelve-year-old get in the way of ending a decades-long blood feud. “It’s a good thing.”

* 

Emma spends the week before Thanksgiving avoiding Regina even more than usual. It’s not too hard since Henry’s spending the week with Regina and Emma’s been roped into helping Mary Margaret get ready for the big holiday dinner. Apparently, she’s decided to go all out, and Emma’s more than a little worried that her mother’s putting a little too much pressure on this one meal. 

But it does keep Emma busy, keeps her from missing Henry as much as she usually does on her weeks without him, so that’s something. Plus, they’re having it at Emma’s apartment since that’s apparently neutral ground, not nearly as fraught as the mayoral mansion or her parents’ loft, which means she spends most of her free time either cleaning or helping David put together some of the furniture that she still hasn't gotten around to assembling.

On the day before Thanksgiving, Mary Margaret sends Emma to the grocery store with a list of all the last minute stuff she needs, cranberry sauce and wine and pumpkin for the pie. 

The market is packed, of course, and they’re out of almost everything. Emma manages to get the cranberry sauce and the wine, but the store's out of pumpkin, which means they’re probably going to have to forgo the pumpkin pie, but well. That’s probably going to be the least of their concerns considering the general possibility for disaster tomorrow. 

But when she calls Mary Margaret to tell her about the no-pumpkin thing, it’s apparently a really big deal. Because, according to Mary Margaret, Thanksgiving needs pie, and the meal will be incomplete without it, and could Emma maybe swing by the market on the other side of town, just to see if they have any? Which Emma agrees to do, of course, because if this meal turns out to be a disaster, there’s no way it's going to be because of something she screwed up. 

She’s tucking her phone back into her jacket pocket, her head down as she hurries out of the store, when she runs smack into Regina on the sidewalk outside the market.

Regina looks almost as startled as Emma feels, but she recovers quickly, giving Emma a tight, close-lipped smile.“Hello, Miss Swan,” she says, all careful politeness. 

“Hey.” Emma’s mouth feels suddenly dry and she coughs, clearing her throat. It’s the first time she's been alone with Regina since that night when they kissed in her kitchen, and she feels her heart skip in her chest. 

“Doing some last minute shopping?”

“Yep.” Emma nods and glances in what she hopes is an inconspicuous way down at her watch. If she leaves now, she might be able to make it over to the other side of town and still have time to get back and pick up Henry from school. 

“Am I keeping you from something, Miss Swan?”

Emma sighs. “I need to find pumpkin.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Pumpkin,” Emma repeats. “Mary Margaret needs it for pie, and the market’s out, and I need to pick up Henry in like half an hour, but if I don’t get the pumpkin, then there won’t be pie, and apparently Thanksgiving will be ruined…” she trails off a little pathetically. Sometimes this whole being a daughter and mother thing is kind of a pain in the ass. 

Regina just looks at her for a few beats, and then: “I can make the pie,” she says, shrugging one suit-clad shoulder. 

“What?”

“The pie, Miss Swan.” There’s only the slightest edge of exasperation there, which is pretty good considering it’s Regina. “I’ll bring it to dinner tomorrow, so you don’t need to abandon Henry this afternoon in order to save Thanksgiving at the Charmings.”

“Oh,” Emma says. It’s actually not a bad plan, except for the whole having to trust Regina not to poison them all part of it. But she must be taking a little too long to respond, because Regina’s expression is starting to harden, her eyes narrowing a little. So: “That’s...that’s actually a great idea. Thanks, Regina.”

The Evil Queen smiles, surprised and genuine. “You’re welcome, Emma.”

*

The thing is, Emma’s never actually had a regular family Thanksgiving and the whole process is just a little...stressful. Mary Margaret is trying really, _really_ hard to make sure everything’s perfect, which of course just ratchets up the pressure for everything to actually _be_ perfect, and the experience just kind of sets Emma’s teeth on edge. 

By the time Regina finally shows up, pie in hand, Emma’s so stressed out she barely even has time to worry about how awkward all of this might turn out to be. Plus, Regina takes one look at the determined look on Mary Margaret’s face and the disaster that is Emma’s kitchen, and she hands off the foil-covered pie plate she's holding before quickly disappearing into the living room to watch the parade with Henry and David.

When they finally sit down to eat, Emma’s completely exhausted, so wrung out from all the Thanksgiving prep work that she doesn’t even try to rearrange the seating when she ends up squeezed on one side of the table next to Regina. 

But then Regina's knee bumps up against hers under the table, and Emma's stomach flips traitorously. After that, she spends an inordinate amount of time trying to avoid any unnecessary physical contact between them, not paying attention to anything other than not touching Regina. She thinks she eats some turkey and maybe some potatoes, but she’s honestly not sure. It’s just that the table is very small and there are five of them crowded around it and Regina smells kind of distractingly good, like apples and pumpkin pie. 

Mary Margaret and David try to keep up a forced, cheerful patter, but Emma is barely able to follow it what with trying to not-touch Regina. For her part, Regina seems to be concentrating on just getting through the meal, not responding much to conversation, but not snapping at Mary Margaret or casting any kind of horrible sleeping curses or anything.

Finally, right after the second helping of turkey gets passed around, Mary Margaret nudges Henry. “Did you tell them about the pageant?” she asks, sounding more than a little desperate to get some kind of conversation going.

“What pageant?” Regina asks, sounding suddenly interested in the conversation.

“We’re having a Christmas pageant at the school," Henry says with a shrug. 

“And you’re in it?” she prompts.

“Everybody’s in it,” Henry says and takes a big bite of turkey, before glancing at Regina then Emma. “You guys are going to come, right?”

“Of course,” they say at the same time, and Emma clears her throat and looks down at her plate, ignoring the sidelong glance Regina shoots her, ignoring the way Regina’s mouth quirks up in an almost-smile. 

*

The rest of the meal goes pretty smoothly, all things considered, everyone being civil and unfailingly polite. Emma tries to just go with it, figuring that it’s pretty par for the course for a holiday meal, awkward small talk and studied politeness. Not that she would know exactly, since this is technically her first family holiday thing, but still. Things seem to be going fairly okay, no talk of ruined lives or world-destroying curses. At least until they’re finished with the turkey and Henry asks about dessert.

“I’ll get the pie,” Regina says, and it’s pretty much impossible to miss the look David shoots Mary Margaret, this nervous we-might-all-end-up-in-a-sleeping-curse look that makes Emma roll her eyes. 

“I’ll help,” she says, pushing back her chair and ignoring the surprised look on Regina’s face. 

It’s still pretty warm in the kitchen, the air thick with the homey smell of cooking, and Emma trails a few steps behind Regina, making sure to keep her distance. They don't have the best track record of keeping their hands to themselves in kitchens these days, so. Best to play it safe.

Regina seems totally unfazed, of course, just heading over to the counter to pull the foil off the pie, revealing a seemingly-perfect pumpkin pie, the crust golden and the filling a deep, burnt-orange. Emma grabs a couple of plates and puts them down on the counter, still trying to keep her distance from Regina. It's more difficult now that it's just the two of them. 

“You haven’t been going to Granny’s,” Regina says very quietly. She’s not looking at Emma, all her attention apparently focused on slicing the pie into eight perfectly symmetrical pieces.

“What?”

“In the morning,” Regina explains, sliding a piece of pie onto a plate and handing it to Emma. Their fingers brush a little when she does, and Emma forces herself not to react. “On your days with Henry. You haven’t been bringing him to Granny’s for breakfast. I was in there a few times last week and…” she trails off, shrugging a little. 

“Oh,” is all Emma says. Because, yeah, they’ve stopped doing the breakfast thing. It’s just...after her talk with Henry about not trying to set them up, Emma’s been trying to dial it back on the breakfast dates with Regina thing. But it’s not like she can tell Regina that, so she just stands there, taking the plates from Regina as she serves up the pie. Finally, they’ve got five pieces on five plates and Emma feels like she has to say something, so: “It's just that mornings are kind of hectic, you know?” 

A look flickers across Regina’s face, too fast for Emma to parse. “Of course,” she says brusquely, clearing her throat and straightening her back. “Well, I didn’t mean to infringe upon your time with him,” she says, all stilted. 

Emma sighs. “No, Regina, that’s not…” she starts, but she can tell Regina’s barely listening, her expression hard and unmoving. Emma scrubs a hand across her face then pinches the bridge of her nose. Then: “He’s trying to parent trap us.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Regina turns so that her attention is on Emma, her head cocked a little to the side.

“Henry,” Emma says. “He’s trying to parent trap us.” 

Regina blinks. “I have no idea what that means, Miss Swan.” 

Ugh, of course she doesn’t. “It means he’s trying to set us up,” Emma explains.

“Set us up to do what?” Regina’s giving her a blank look, and seriously? Emma can’t believe she’s going to actually have to say it. But Regina’s just staring at her expectantly, so.

“You know…” Emma trails off, giving her a significant look.

But Regina just raises her eyebrows and shakes her head a little, shrugging. 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Set us up to fall in love.”

Regina looks horrified. “That’s absurd.”

“It’s not that absurd!” And, okay, maybe Emma’s a little more offended than she should be, but she has just spent the past month trying to tell herself that she doesn’t have any romantic feelings toward Regina whatsoever, so it does sting a little that Regina’s being so dismissive of the whole thing. So: “You did kiss me,” she reminds Regina.

Regina scoffs, but she can’t seem to make eye contact and there are bright red spots on her cheeks. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Swan.”

“Seriously?” Emma demands. “You have _no idea_ what I’m talking about?”

“No.” Regina looks away, lining the pie plates up on the counter, blood red nails dark against the delicate white china. 

Emma can’t believe this, can’t believe that Regina is pretending like it never happened. "You're a liar."

Regina jerks her head up to look at her, her dark eyes bright with defiance. Emma narrows her eyes and then takes a step closer to her, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off her body, and her heart rate picks up, racing in her chest. 

She sees Regina swallow, her throat working, her eyes flicking down to Emma’s mouth. 

Emma kisses her then, not totally sure what she’s doing, but determined to make her point, make Regina admit that what happened actually did happen. 

Regina doesn’t even hesitate before she kisses her back, running her tongue along Emma’s bottom lip, pressing her body against Emma’s, her breathing quick and ragged. She feels amazing against her, like their bodies were meant to fit together, and Emma puts her hands on Regina’s hips, pressing her fingertips the thin line of smooth, warm skin where Regina’s shirt has gotten pushed up at her waist. 

Regina makes a quiet, desperate noise in the back of her throat, and reaches up to fist a hand in Emma’s hair, clutching her closer. 

When Emma pushes her up against the counter, Regina’s hip bumps against the plates of pie, making them clink together lightly. And it should be enough to make them stop, to make them remember where they are, but it’s too late, somehow, everything too far gone, so Emma just presses closer, her fingertips digging into the sharp lines of Regina’s hipbones, sliding one knee between her thighs.

The kiss has pretty much gotten completely out of control – Emma’s hand is under Regina’s blouse, ghosting over the lines of her ribs and she can’t stop touching her, no matter how much she needs to, no matter how big of a mistake she knows she’s making – but the only thing Emma can think about is the feel of Regina against her, the taste of her, just. _Regina._

Regina’s hooking her leg around Emma’s waist when one of the plates crashes to the ground, the noise incredibly loud in the quiet of the kitchen, loud enough to make them jerk apart, the two of them staring at each other, wide-eyed and breathless.

Regina’s her cheeks flushed and her lips red and a little swollen. Emma steps back, pulling her shirt back down and then smoothing her hair behind her ears, and there’s no way Regina’s denying this, no way she can pretend like it didn’t happen. 

“Emma?” David says. When Emma turns around, he’s standing in the doorway, he’s not looking at her or Regina, thank God, he’s down at the floor at the shattered plate. “Is everything okay in here?”

Emma nods, swallowing hard and looking down at the floor, her heart thrumming in her chest. “Yeah,” she says, and she takes a step back, away from Regina. “Yeah, everything's fine.”

*

After that, Emma really commits to her decision to put some space between her and Regina. She starts avoiding not only conceivably date-like interactions, but basically all interactions all together. Which isn’t particularly difficult because Regina seems just as intent on avoiding her. 

It’s actually working out really well, at least it is until Henry decides he’s sick of it. It’s another Sunday night where Regina’s just dropped him off outside of Emma’s building, waving goodbye to him from the driver’s seat of her car while Emma waits for him upstairs, that Henry decides he’s had enough.

“Why are you and my mom avoiding each other?” he demands as soon as he’s in the door. He drops his duffel bag at his feet and crosses his arms over his chest, leveling a narrow-eyed look at Emma. 

“We’re not avoiding each other,” Emma lies. Or, well, not _lies_ exactly. It’s not like she and Regina have conspired not to be around each other, it’s just happened that way. 

Henry cocks a disbelieving eyebrow. “You are. You’ve barely even talked to each other since Thanksgiving.”

“Henry,” Emma sighs. “We’re not avoiding each other, okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t look convinced. “Why don’t you guys come to the pageant together?”

“What?”

“The Christmas pageant,” he says, in this tone like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You’re both coming tomorrow, right? You might as well just come together.”

“Henry, I don’t know…”

“You’re not being fair,” he accuses. 

Emma blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

Henry huffs out a sigh, his eyes narrowed. “You told me to stop trying to parent trap you, and I did. But you _still_ won’t be nice to each other.”

Oh, geez, if only that were true. Really, she needs to be less nice to Regina, not more. “Listen kid, I’m not –”

“No,” he cuts her off, sounding legitimately upset. “I want you guys to be friends. You’re both my moms and, just. Please, please try to be friends with her. Please?”

Well, crap. There’s pretty much no way she can say no to that, so: “Okay, fine. I’ll go with her.”

“Great!” He’s grinning now, bouncing a little on his toes. “Make sure you guys get there early so you can get a good seat.”

*

There’s a early winter snowstorm moving in on the night of the pageant, so Emma makes sure to get to Regina’s office early, hoping that they can leave before the weather gets too bad.

But Regina’s on the phone when she gets there, and she gestures for Emma to wait, holding her index finger up and rolling her eyes a little at the receiver. Emma gives her a half-smile in return, and maybe it’s just her imagination, but Regina sits up a little taller, watching Emma with her bright, dark eyes.

So Emma waits, pacing slowing around Regina’s office, trying not to eavesdrop too much on whatever Mayor-business Regina’s in the middle of. It turns out to be pretty easy since she’s apparently in the middle of debating zoning laws, which is about as dull of a task as Emma can imagine. But Regina seems focused on clearing up whatever the issue is, and it takes almost another half an hour before she finally hangs up, the satisfied look on her face enough to tell Emma that she won whatever battle she was fighting. 

By the time they finally make it outside, the storm’s started, snow falling fast as the wind whips down the empty streets of Storybrooke. Emma starts down the sidewalk, taking a couple seconds to realize Regina’s not walking with her. When she turns around, she sees Regina opening the door to her car, watching Emma with a smirk.

“What are you doing?” Emma asks. 

“Get in, Miss Swan. We’re driving.”

“The school’s only like a half mile away.” 

“I’ll not have you show up to my son’s school looking like a bedraggled hobo,” Regina says. “Get in.”

Emma sighs. “You know what, Regina?”

“I’m sure I don’t,” she says. “But get in, Miss Swan, and you’re more than welcome to tell me.”

The snow is already starting to form little drifts along the sidewalk, and Emma glances worriedly up at the sky, hoping the worst of it will wait until after the pageant is over. The last thing she wants is to get snowed in at the school. 

“Fine,” Emma says, but Regina’s already in the car, pulling off her gloves and fiddling with the heater. Emma blows out another sigh before ducking into the car.

Inside, the Regina’s got the heater going and the rich, black leather of the seats is already starting to warm up, the car nice and cozy compared to the frigid air outside. 

Even though the snow doesn’t pick up too much, the streets are icy and the drive is precarious, the car’s tires skidding at almost every turn in a way that makes Emma’s heart pound.

“Maybe we should walk from here,” Emma finally says. She’s got a white-knuckled grip on the door handle, trying to brace herself for the next icy patch.

Regina shakes her head, tightening her jaw and hunching over steering wheel. The snow’s still only falling lightly, but the windows are starting to fog up and there’s almost no visibility. “We’re almost there,” she says, pulling the steering wheel carefully to the right, taking the next turn incredibly slowly. 

But they must catch an ice slick because suddenly the car’s fishtailing, the back end of the car spinning ahead of the front. A tight, sick knot of anxiety forms in Emma’s throat as she tightens her hand against the door, squeezing her eyes shut as a terribly feeling of directionlessness takes over. It’s probably only a couple of seconds, but it feels like forever before they finally stop, the car skidding to a halt as the tires bumping heavily against what Emma hopes is just the curb of the sidewalk. 

Her heart is racing and her stomach feels like it’s in her throat, but when she opens her eyes, Regina’s trying to get going again, her hands shaking against the wheel as she squints out the windshield. 

Jesus, is she insane? And she really must be, because she’s starting to press lightly on the gas, like she’s just going to keep driving, even though they don’t move, the engine revving and the tires spinning uselessly. 

“Stop,” Emma says, trying not to feel as panicked as she feels. She just really, really doesn’t want to die in a fiery crash with her mortal enemy. “Regina,” she says, louder this time, loud enough that Regina looks over at her, her eyes wide. “ _Stop_.”

Regina’s hands are trembling on the wheel, but she puts the car in park, cutting the engine. Emma lets out a shaky breath and runs a hand through her hair. They just sit there like that for a few minutes, listening in silence to the sound the snowstorm outside, both of them pale and shaky. Finally: “Are you okay?” Emma asks.

Regina swallows, but doesn’t answer, just nods her head vaguely. She looks a little dazed, her eyes wide as she stares out the windshield. 

“Regina?” Emma prompts. She has to raise her voice a little, the wind blowing down so loud it’s hard to hear in the car. Regina doesn’t respond, so Emma reaches out and puts her hand on top of Regina’s. “You okay?”

Regina blinks and looks over at her. “Of course, Miss Swan,” she says, and Emma can tell she’s trying to sound nonchalant, but there’s a sharp edge of anxiety to her voice, and her fingers are trembling beneath Emma’s.

Emma nods, letting out a deep, shaky breath, trying to get her heart to slow down. The windows have completely fogged up, making it so that it’s impossible to see anything at all outside the car. The heater’s still running, making the air feel stuffy and close. 

It takes Emma a few beats to realize that she’s still got her hand on Regina’s, their fingers intertwined. Regina seems to notice at around the same time, going incredibly still as she looks at their hands on the steering wheel. It’s incredibly quiet, the snow muffling the sound from outside, and Emma hears Regina’s breathing change, turning shallow and quick as Emma strokes her thumb lightly across the back of Regina’s knuckles. Her hands are warm from the heat, and Emma can’t figure out what’s wrong with her, why she can’t stop touching Regina like this anytime they’re together. 

Regina’s eyes are dark as she leans over the console, but Emma pulls away, leaning so that her back’s against the door.

The window is cold against her back, and she tries to concentrate on that rather than on the way Regina looks, her lips red and swollen and her hair mussed. It mostly works, the cool, hard glass grounding her enough so that she can say what she wants to say. Finally: “I can’t do this anymore.”

Regina blinks. “Oh.”

Emma shakes her head, dragging a hand through her hair. “I just...I can’t keep pretending like this isn’t happening.” Now that Regina’s not touching her, she’s getting cold, shivering a little, and she wraps her arms around herself, huddling into her coat. “Because the thing is, I like you Regina.” Admitting it didn’t feel quite as bizarre as Emma thought it would, but the words still feel a little strange coming out of her mouth. She likes Regina. 

For her part, Regina just blinks at her again, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. Finally: “You like me?” she repeats.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Yeah,” she says. “I like you.” Regina’s mouth twitches up in a smile, and Emma smiles back before she can stop herself. “But I can’t keep doing this. Especially not with Henry wishing we were...thinking we might…” she trails off, not sure what else to say. Because the thing is, Henry’s right. It’s not fair. Because she’s not going to admit she’s in love with Regina when Regina won’t even acknowledge that they can tolerate each other. 

Regina doesn’t respond, just stares at her, the silence in the car stretching out between them. 

Finally, Emma can’t take it anymore. It’s still snowing, but the wind sounds like it’s died down and they’re probably safe to drive the last half hour to the school. She sighs, and straightens in her seat, staring out the still-fogged windshield. “Well,” she says, very quietly. “Let’s just--”

“I like you, too,” Regina blurts out, her voice sounding overly loud in the quiet of the car.

Emma glances at her sidelong. “You do?”

“Yes, Miss Swan,” she says, and she sounds oddly formal, like she’s admitting something terribly embarrassing. “I do.”

When Emma turns to look at her, Regina’s watching her closely, almost as though she’s expecting Emma to laugh at her or say something cutting. 

Emma kisses her instead, reaching over to cup her hand against the back of Regina’s neck.

The kiss is slow and deliberate, almost chaste, both of them hesitant and unsure. Regina tastes like apples and snow, and her mouth is warm against Emma’s, her lips smooth and dry. When Emma finally deepens the kiss, tracing her tongue along Regina’s lower lip, she feels Regina smile, her mouth curving against Emma’s. 

The console between them makes their movements awkward, and Emma has to pull away for a couple of seconds so that she can climb over it, stumbling gracelessly until she’s straddling Regina’s lap, her knees on either side of her thighs. 

Regina opens her mouth under hers, and she makes a quiet, startled noise as Emma rocks closer to her, their hips pressed together, the seam on Emma’s jeans sliding against the silk of Regina’s skirt, the friction making them both gasp and cling together a little desperately.

The air inside the car is warm and humid, and Regina slides her hands under the hem of Emma’s shirt, her palms pressing flat against Emma’s back, and when she slides her hands up her fingertips brush Emma’s ribs, tickling enough to make Emma gasp, laughing and squirming away reflexively. 

When she does, her back hits the steering wheel and the horn blares, loud enough to make them both jump, Emma’s head smacking against the roof of the car. 

“Ow,” she says, and Regina’s just looking at her, wide-eyed and flushed in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

Emma rubs the back of her head gingerly, sitting back against Regina’s knees, balancing lightly against the steering wheel, trying to stay clear of the horn. 

Regina’s skirt has gotten rucked up around her thighs, high enough to reveal a thin flash of pale skin above the black lace garters of her stockings, and Emma reaches down to tug gently at the skirt, pulling it back into place. When her fingers brush the bare skin there, Regina’s breath catches, her chest hitching as she watches Emma with wide, dark eyes. They just watch each other for a few beats, Emma’s fingers resting against Regina’s thighs, the air in the car heavy and warm, and then the clock over the library chimes in the distance, just loud enough for them to hear.

“We better get going,” Emma finally says, her voice coming out low and raspy, softer than she means. “We don’t want to be late.”

“Late?” Regina repeats, sounding a little dazed, her forehead creased in confusion. 

Emma tries hard not to smile. “For Henry’s play?” 

Regina blinks, and then shakes her head slightly like she’s trying to clear it. “Of course,” she says, but she doesn’t move to get out of the car.

Emma smoothes her fingers one last time over the hem over Regina’s skirt before reaching down to open the driver’s door. 

Outside, the streets are dark and empty, which Emma realizes, is probably a good thing since if there was anyone around they’d have gotten an eyeful of her straddling the Evil Queen. But there’s no one, the sidewalk completely deserted. 

The car’s leaning at a strange angle, the back end jacked up on the curb, one tire a couple of inches off the pavement, so she steps out of the car carefully before reaching into to help Regina out.

Regina holds her hand firmly; she's still hasn't put her gloves on, but her fingers are warm from the car's heater, her skin almost shockingly hot compared to cold air outside.

The storm isn't quite over, the snow still falling, and Regina lets go of her hand and crosses her arms over her chest, hunching her shoulders against the cold. When Emma glances over at her, she looks almost troubled, her eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of them. 

Emma bumps her gently with her shoulder, nudging her just enough so that Regina looks up at her. “Are you okay?” 

Regina nods, the ends of her hair brushing against Emma’s shoulder. “I think,” she says, glancing over at Emma with a sideways smile. “I think I’m…happy.” She says it like a revelation, like it’s something she still quite can’t believe.

Emma smiles, and Regina reaches for her hand, twining their fingers together, pulling her close until they're pressed together from their shoulders to their hips, the two of them keeping each other warm in the cold. There are snowflakes caught in Regina's hair, glittering softly in the moonlight. “Yeah,” Emma says. “I think I am too.” 

**

the end.


End file.
